By A Guy Who Just Wanted a Quiet Flight and Maybe a Hug
It’s been a month since I saw my girlfriend. We live apart—she’s in Houston, that vast, sprawling circus of freeways, mad drivers, and more concrete bridges than sense. I live in Richmond, Virginia, which, if you read my last bit of rambling, is allegedly part of heaven. Now, I didn’t say it is heaven. But compared to Houston? It might as well be the garden of Eden with functioning traffic signals.
So here I am, sitting in Richmond Airport, which—judging by the number of sweaty, confused humans packed into this shoebox of a terminal—is now far too small for the local population. We need a new airport. One that rivals the shimmering glass palaces of Singapore or even Dubai’s oddly temporary-looking architecture. But let’s be honest. We’d cock it up and end up with something like old LaGuardia. Smells like regret and sadness. Crumbling like a biscuit in tea.
Now, there’s a dog on our flight to Atlanta. A little one. And of course, I instantly miss my own dog, the fluffy gremlin currently back home. I wish I’d brought him with me. But alas, airlines in their infinite tyranny have decreed that dogs must be shoved under the seat in what they call a “carrier.” It’s not a carrier. It’s a glorified purse with air holes.
I tried that once. Just once. My dog, a small white mop with opinions, didn’t take it well. From Richmond to Houston, he whined, squirmed, and then—somehow—chewed his way halfway out of the carrier like a tiny, furry Houdini. Climbed onto my lap mid-flight, eyes pleading, “Why, why, why!?”
Enter the flight attendant. Five foot three of rage and polyester. She saw the Great Escape and, channeling the full wrath of Asgard, stormed over and unleashed a lecture so intense I thought I’d be thrown out of the aircraft. At 34,000 feet. Is that a thing now? Ejecting passengers for lap dogs?
So I hunched over like a tragic gargoyle for the rest of the flight, whispering apologies to my pup and praying my spine would survive. When we landed, I genuinely needed assistance off the plane. Thor was nowhere to be found. And that’s when I made the vow: unless we’re in first class, my dog stays home. With my wonderful neighbor.
Now, I’m in Atlanta for my layover. Waiting. Of course I am. The flight to Houston is delayed because of lightning. Apparently, there’s “too much of it.” All this technology—jet engines, autopilots, satellite-linked navigation—and still, a bit of atmospheric sparkle brings the whole thing to a halt. Brilliant.
But then I overheard something. A flight attendant chatting with a captain-looking fellow. He said—and I quote—“I can’t find my airplane.”
Sorry, what?
He lost the plane?
This is the man entrusted to hurl us through the sky at 500 miles per hour in a metal tube the size of a small office building—and he can’t locate it? It’s not a misplaced sandwich. It’s a Boeing.
So now I sit here, wondering if this is some sort of celestial warning. A bad omen. Maybe I should have stayed home. But I’ve come this far, and there’s a girl waiting for me. And possibly dinner. And hopefully not a sky-based disaster.
If you don’t hear from me again, well, fate and all that. But I hope you do.
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A Kings 
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